


questo calice di vino

by damnslippyplanet



Series: The Pirozhki Are Probably People [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Drinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 05:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: Yuuri feels like he should remember this.  Surely there’s some missing piece that would help him understand how he could possibly have gotten from “drooling over Victor’s forearms” to “boring him senseless with Yuuri’s stupid ideas for his stupid seminar paper about a serial killer who’ll probably get caught before Yuuri even takes the profiling seminar.”No memory is forthcoming to help him out.“You found a man like that,” Yurio says, waving a spoon accusingly at Yuuri. “ And you dirty-talked at him for two hours aboutmurder.  You have the worst game I have ever seen and you are never going to have sex again.”“But welove youand it’sfine,” Phichit cuts in. He’s very loyal. Yuuri loves him, when he doesn’t want to stab him.





	questo calice di vino

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ishxallxgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishxallxgood/gifts).



> This is the first of three fics that ishxallxgood commissioned via the Fandom Loves Puerto Rico auction. I hope I've at least started to do justice to their hopes for a YOI/Hannibal fusion. I promise you more murder in future installments, my friend! Also more of the other characters you wanted to see. Had to indulge myself in a little AU-drunk-banquet-esque setup first.

Yuuri knows better than to go drinking with Phichit and Yurio. It never ends well - he drinks too much and does something stupid, or drinks not enough and spends the night trying to become one with the shadowy part of the booth while Phichit and Yurio fight over the jukebox or make out in the men’s room (usually with strangers, once with each other, they like to pretend it never happened but Yuuri knows what he saw.) He doesn’t even know how Yurio gets into the bars around Quantico; he’s a year too young and his fake ID is the worst.

“I could get you a better one,” Phichit had said when Yurio had first acquired it. “There’s a girl in my longform class who has _connections_.” (Few words thrill Phichit like “connections.” Yuuri’s pretty sure that Phichit’s entire reason for being in journalism school is the hope of winding up in a parking lot one day having a meeting with a shadowy “connection.”)

Yurio had fixed Phichit with the very deadest of all his impressive range of deadpan blue-eyed glares and said only, “It’s just a formality. The bouncers are all scared of me.”

That might be true. The story’s mostly faded from immediate memory now but enough people still recognize Yurio from the news coverage that he’s given up hiding and gone into aggressive posturing instead. He doesn’t have a YES, I’M THE MINNESOTA SHRIKE’S SON, SHUT UP ABOUT IT ALREADY t-shirt but only because it hasn’t occurred to him yet. Phichit’s talking about getting him one for Christmas, since Yuuri’s already staked his claim to the Pusheen kigurumi off Yurio’s wishlist.

Yuuri’s tried to talk Phichit out of it, but he never seems to get anywhere talking either of them out of anything. Which is probably why he finds himself the designated drink-fetcher on this particular night, making his unsteady way back toward the booth with one more drink than he has hands to carry. He still makes it almost all the way there - Phichit’s beer tucked precariously in the crook of one arm while his own whiskey occupies his left hand and Yurio’s Pink Russian in his right - before disaster strikes.

“Disaster” is wearing a suit that must be expensive based on how little it looks like anything Yuuri’s ever seen in any store he shops in. The pattern makes Yuuri’s eyes cross a little, but it was still probably a pretty nice suit, three minutes ago.

“Was”, because Yuuri flinched sideways to get away from the flailing hand of someone on the dance floor, and right into Disaster’s path. And now the jacket is covered in the cotton-candy, Pepto-Bismol, Hello-Kitty-pink smear of Yurio’s cocktail. Yuuri watches in vaguely fascinated horror as one bit of the pink smear drips its way down Disaster’s waistcoat. There’s a bit of whiskey mixed in but most of that ended up on Yuuri.

Disaster is wearing a waistcoat. In the shittiest dive bar within a half hour’s walk of Quantico, where probably no one has ever worn a waistcoast in the history of the universe. Definitely no one has ever spilled a Pink Russian on a fancy waistcoat in this bar since the beginning of recorded history.

Yuuri is wearing the first clean flannel shirt he could find over Phichit’s Christmas present from last year (“[INTERNAL SCREAMING]”, it says in bright blue letters) and “What’s New, Pussycat” is starting up for the third time because Yurio brought a pocket full of quarters and a bottomless thirst for tormenting Yuuri, and when Yuuri finally forces himself to make eye contact, Disaster is staring at Yuuri as if he himself is almost as stalled out as Yuuri feels.

Yuuri wonders for a minute if they’re just going to stand there for the rest of the night, marinating in the fumes of Yuuri’s poor doomed whiskey, staring at each other and dripping cocktails down their fronts until last call. But then two things happen at once: The bell over the door jingles as someone slips out into the night - the person Disaster was following, says the vague and troublesome part of Yuuri’s brain that often sees things the rest of him isn’t entirely aware of - and Yuuri startles and drops the final drink, Phichit’s beer crashing to the ground in a spray of broken glass, breaking the frozen moment and freeing Yuuri to look away.

The world starts up again.

Disaster flicks his eyes toward the door, frowns the smallest frown that can still be classified as a facial expression, and then reaches for his pocket square to start mopping himself up. Yuuri hears Yurio screech “WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS, WHY DO I GO ANYWHERE WITH YOU” loud enough to cut through the sound of Tom Jones caterwauling.

Yuuri indulges in a brief, fervent fantasy about the floor opening up and swallowing him.

What actually happens is worse: a conversation.

“I’m afraid I’ve been rude and ruined your evening,” Disaster says, and _oh_. When Disaster smiles, it transforms his entire face. Yuuri feels briefly, inexplicably, better.

And then he sees Yurio cutting through the crowd toward him, face a thundercloud, flinging the loose end of his leopard-print scarf back over his shoulder with a flourish, and Yuuri goes back to wishing for the floor-swallowing option. “My roommate is on his way over here to yell at me and I promise he’s ruder than you could possibly be,” he says in despair that he’s sure Disaster can hear in his voice. He takes a step backward and feels the crunch of glass under his heel.

Disaster doesn’t look toward Yurio, or toward the glass scattered under their feet. He’s only looking at Yuuri, and it’s uncomfortable. Or something _like_ uncomfortable but not quite that.  Like being dissected but _wanting_ it.

“What’s to be done about that?” Disaster says, and when he reaches out to take Yuuri by the shoulder and steer him away from the broken glass, Yuuri doesn’t flinch at all.

* * *

Disaster turns out to be named Victor. He steers Yuuri firmly into the men’s room and starts to pull handfuls of paper towels out of the dispenser to get them both cleaned up. When Yurio stomps in to yell, Victor manages to settle him with about four sentences and a bill slipped smoothly into Yurio’s hand to buy replacement drinks and another hour’s worth of Tom Jones.

(Yuuri blinks at the number he thinks he sees on the bill, which would buy a lot more than an hour’s worth of jukebox tunes and shitty pink drinks, but probably he’s wrong. Probably he’s just drunk. Probably Disaster didn’t just bribe an FBI-agent-in-training to go away. Yurio slams the door on his way out but it’s a perfunctory, mollified sort of slam.)

“He doesn’t mean to be an asshole,” Yuuri finds himself babbling just to say something. “He’s just, we got our exam results back today and he’s mad. He’s not always like this.” Yuuri reconsiders as he flails at himself ineffectually with the wad of damp paper towels. “He’s a little competitive.”

Victor shrugs out of his pink-splattered jacket and starts rolling up his sleeves and running more water in the sink.

Yuuri tries not to stare.

“You scored higher,” Victor says - a statement, not a question. It’s a perfectly reasonable assumption but it feels like it’s not an assumption at all. Like Victor just knows things about Yuuri that he couldn’t.

“He came in second.” Yuuri scrubs harder at the whiskey blotch on his shirt, like he might be able to erase it, or the last ten minutes, or the whole night. Like he might blink and find himself at home on the couch, cozy and quiet. “It’s just a test. He’ll probably blow right to the head of the class on the next one, it’s what we do. Then he’ll yell some more but it’ll be happier yelling.” It makes sense in his head, after living with Yurio, but it sounds dumb out loud.

Why is Victor even talking to him. What is happening right now.

Victor’s unbuttoning his waistcoat. Yuuri’s throat is very dry. He wants another whiskey. Maybe six more whiskeys.

“Your other friend stays out of it?” Victor sounds amused. He’s running out of layers to take off. His shirt looks like it would be soft if Yuuri touched it.

Yuuri’s not going to touch it. That’s the kind of thing he does when he gets drunk but he’s not that drunk. Probably.

“He’s not at Quantico,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t know why he’s talking about this, Victor can’t possibly care about Yurio’s weird and combative form of friendship. But Victor’s eyes do widen a little when Yuuri says “Quantico,” the way people’s always do. Yuuri hopes he won’t have to explain, yet again, how it’s not actually glamorous like it is on TV. He spends a lot of time in lectures and morgues and getting muddy in fields. He thinks about bugs and decomposition in all his spare time. “He’s going to be a journalist. He’s my best friend.” And then, and it sounds dopey even as he’s saying it and Yuuri wishes he could bite off his own tongue, he adds, “We’re going to solve the crimes and he’s going to write about them. If I graduate without Yurio strangling me in my sleep.”

Victor delicately drapes his ruined jacket and waistcoat over one arm and turns to Yuuri.

“We’re almost respectable again,” he says, and holds out his free hand. He doesn’t touch Yuuri this time; it feels like he’s waiting for Yuuri to bridge the gap to him. “Will you let me buy you a drink to make up for the one you lost?”

* * *

Yuuri doesn’t quite remember, later, whether he took Victor’s hand or not. Surely he didn’t. Surely that would have been a strange, overly intimate gesture for a stranger. Even one he’d recently doused in kahlua.

He doesn’t remember much of the rest of the evening at all, really.

Fortunately (“FORTUNATELY,” Phichit says with unholy glee over breakfast the next morning as he fills Yuuri in on his own behavior in between shovelling pancakes into his mouth), he had two friends in a nearby booth to keep tabs on him.

(“More like stalkers,” he mutters, stabbing viciously at a blueberry.)

(“Friends. BEST friends,” Phichit nearly sings. “Best friends who want only what is good and right for you, Yuuri. Which is why I kept Yurio from breaking up your little party. Because I love you. And because I might need to blackmail you someday.”)

Yuuri does not love Phichit. Yuuri wants to stab Phichit in the hand with his fork, because Phichit keeps stealing bacon off his plate and bacon is Yuuri’s favorite breakfast food. Also, possibly Yuuri is in a bad mood because his head is trying to explode.

It’s possible he let Victor buy him more than one drink.

When he finally dares to look at the cellphone picture Phichit shows him - dark and blurry, thank god, so maybe he’s not halfway in Victor’s lap even though it kind of looks like it, maybe he was just leaning weirdly for a second? - the line of glasses on the table suggests it was definitely more than one drink. He can’t make much else out. They’re both in shadow.

“I don’t even remember what we talked about,” he mutters, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to remember. What could they possibly have talked about?

“About that,” Phichit says, and he puts the phone down to give Yuuri a Look. The sort of Look that says they’re about to have a Serious Bestie Talk.

Oh, no.

Yuuri shoves the last bit of bacon in his mouth before he can lose his appetite entirely and then waits for the bad news.

“Yurio did overhear a little bit before I could intercept him,” Phichit starts in.

He doesn’t get any farther, because Yurio chooses that moment to emerge from his bedroom, trailing a cloud of gross cologne as he announces dramatically, “Oh, VICTOR.”

Yuuri doesn’t _squeak_ like that. He’s sure he doesn’t.

“VICTOR, it’s SO AMAZING that you KNOW about the CHESAPEAKE RIPPER,” Yurio goes on. He opens the cupboard and starts slamming things around in search of his own breakfast. “It’s so SPECIAL and UNIQUE that we SHARE THIS UNDERSTANDING even though EVERYONE IN A FOUR STATE RADIUS KNOWS ABOUT HIM,” he says.

Phichit bunches up his napkin and throws it at the back of Yurio’s ponytailed head, missing by a solid foot.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Phichit says. “At least, not when I came over. You were just. Um.” He fiddles with his phone and avoids looking anywhere in particular, which is usually Yuuri’s trick. “You were talking about the Ripper. It sounded like you were talking again about that paper you want to write? I don’t know, I just came to drag Yurio away. If it makes you feel any better, he seemed like he was into it. Or into you.”

Yuuri feels like he should remember this. Surely there’s some missing piece that would help him understand how he could possibly have gotten from “drooling over Victor’s forearms in the men’s room” to “boring him senseless with Yuuri’s stupid ideas for his stupid seminar paper about a killer who’ll probably get caught before Yuuri even takes the profiling seminar.”

No memory is forthcoming to help him out.

“You found a man like that,” Yurio says, waving a spoon accusingly at Yuuri. “ And you dirty-talked at him for two hours about murder. You have the worst game I have ever seen and you are never going to have sex again.”

“But we _love you_ and it’s _fine_ ,” Phichit cuts in. He’s very loyal. Yuuri loves him, when he doesn’t want to stab him.

“I don’t love you,” Yurio says cheerfully.

Yuuri pulls himself together and tries to shove the fragmented memory of the previous evening out of his mind. It doesn’t matter. He’s never going to see Victor again and he’s not going to let his idiot roommates drag him out drinking again anytime soon, and it’s fine. Or it will be once he’s had more coffee.

“You’d love me if I let you look at my exam notes,” he says. “Get me some more coffee and we might be able to work something out.”

Yurio glowers, and he stomps, but he fetches the coffee and they finally, blessedly, change the subject from Yuuri’s pathetic sex life, and everything is fine.

It’s fine for the rest of the day, and the rest of the week, and right up until three weeks later when Yuuri rolls into class three minutes late and the guest lecturer turns to him with a bright, bright smile and gestures to an empty seat in the front row without pausing his lecture for even a second.

Yuuri isn’t a front-row student, really. But he’s sort of hypnotized. Victor doesn’t wear a waistcoat to lecture Quantico students, apparently. He wears a sort of - sweater? Over a tie, and under a blazer? It doesn’t seem like it should work. It doesn’t seem like something Yuuri should be thinking about in the middle of class. It doesn’t seem like Victor, From The Dive Bar, should be teaching Yuuri’s class.

Did Yuuri know he lectured at Quantico? Was it something they talked about? Was Victor expecting to see Yuuri here?

The lecture is probably very interesting. Yuuri should probably learn something from it, so he can do well on his final exam.

Yuuri doesn’t learn a thing. When the class is over and the students split into two waves, one half racing to get to their next class and the other swarming the front of the lecture hall to ask more questions of the knowledgeable, charming guest lecturer, Yuuri’s left staring blankly down at his notebook.

“Victor Nikiforov,” it says, and “consulting psychiatrist”, and an email address. The email address hadn’t been in the slides. Victor had written it up on the board. Impromptu. Yuuri thinks - maybe he imagined? - that Victor looked at him when he did it. He thinks maybe Victor’s expecting him to send an email, or to go up and ask a question.

He wishes he could remember what they’d talked about.


End file.
